Wednesday, October 28, 2009

This kind of throws religion's capacity for providing comfort out the window. When confronted with the universe's unimaginable vastness, when we despair of finding our purpose within its infinite expanses, religion offers us a hopeful calm. When we contemplate our own death, and the eternity that will elapse as we continue in an existenceless state, religion can console us with a life after our death.

And then there's this guy.

What message for his flock?

"Follow me!" he says resolutely, waving his crozier around like a conductor's baton. "Into the fires! Therein lies the meaning you have sought!"

He offers the pigs pain. He promises them death. And all they must do to secure their rightful (and lowly) place in the unfolding of things is allow themselves to be killed and eaten.

Are you surprised that this is the fastest-growing religion among pigs? And are you surprised than an actual Episcopal Diocese would employ His Eminence the Pig to advertise its barbecue? Some things happen beyond reason.

Monday, October 26, 2009

It's been so long since our first analysis of suicidefood dog food—more than a year and a half ago—that we had almost forgotten just how unsettling it is.

This cow here, she of the green tripe, looks almost… sedated? (Drugged? Like she's been grazing on the "wire grass," as the kids say?)

While we cannot rule out the possibility that she's been goofed up, we interpret her demeanor as an overabundance of good-natured apathy. This is the expression one wears when one believes all resistance—all objection—is fruitless. When one has concluded that the fundamental state of the universe is senselessness, that life is propped up by irony. "Yeah, well, what are you gonna do?" the cow seems to say. "So do like I do and just sit back and enjoy the ride."

Yes, of course. Enjoy it! View the world with wry detachment as your stomach (one of the first three chambers, typically) is crammed into a can, along with some of what you'd recently eaten, is then shipped around the country, and, finally, is fed to some dog somewhere.

Saturday, October 24, 2009

If you harbored any doubts that strange forces are at work, forces mustered to overthrow reason and decency and install despair and confusion in their place, you need only look to this image.

This painting (image source), part of a mural at the Costa Mesa Omelette Parlor, depicts a sun-worshiping sow at the park. Demurely topless, she dozes on her undone bikini top in the mid-day heat.

As such, she perfectly represents that bizarrest of all suicidefoodist icons, the Sexy Sow. We've seen her sisters in these "pages" many times, and each appearance is more baffling than the last. For it combines sexual neurosis and suicidal "food" animals in a way that should never have occurred to anyone. But there it is, enshrined in untold murals, logos, menus, and the other paraphernalia of the entrailpreneur.

We understand the impulse that leads to suicidefoodism. We understand the comfort derived from animals who appear pleased with people's desire to kill and eat them. We deplore it, but we understand it. We don't understand, however, this desire to see "food" animals as sexual beings. Is it the horror movie cliché of wishing violence on the sinful? Exactly why are they made scapegoats? For what must they be punished? And how, exactly, does this put anyone's mind at ease and create psychological distance?

It's as though seeing in them some aspect of humanity has made it easier for them to be objectified.

Thursday, October 22, 2009

This decal is a lavish bit of generica—it advertises no specific restaurant or product, but can easily be pressed into service on behalf of any pig-related company or consumer goods.

It's got a lot going for it: a pig's come-hither gaze, the apple of death held aloft like Eve's temptation, even a little heart nestled amid the typography.

Honestly, it's as thoughtful and painstaking a piece of suicidefoodiana as any created for a national chain or prestigious local joint. Its all-purpose intentions mean that it is a distillation of everything that's "good" about suicide food. Indeed, it's got the pig proud to play its role as foodstuff and the cutesy admixture of sex and death. (There is something repellent about the way the pig tries to lure us with the barbecue equivalent of a ball gag.)

As an everydecal, suitable for any barbecue-themed business that should come along, it hits all the "right" notes and could easily render even the fly-by-nightiest spot every bit as nauseating as the best-bankrolled barbecue establishment.

Tuesday, October 20, 2009

This mother-loving, iron-pumping pig is working hard. The sweat springs from his brow like popping popcorn as he labors to prove his worth. He isn't your average, flabby hog from St. Charles (Missouri). He has poured countless, tedious hours into creating the tough, chewy Adonis you see before you.

Where Stumpy differs from some of the other "food" animals we've seen who suffer from Self-Destructive Narcissism is in his particular brand of self-love. Oh, he still wants to die, of course. But his all-out regimen of jerks, presses, and reps isn't fueled by anger. No. He's happy. Happy to have perfected the vessel that holds the meat some lucky diner will soon be eating.

Sunday, October 18, 2009

This one takes some decoding. The clues can be found on Porkbeard's pirate get-up.

On his hat, Strong Persuader. That's Robert Cray's handle.

On the guitar, SRV. For Stevie Ray Vaughn.

The buckled boots give us BB and T Bone, for B. B. King and T Bone Burnett. (Or T-Bone Walker?)

And on the hem of his pirate-type coat, Slow Hand. Eric Clapton.

In other words, he is not only a pig dedicated to the prospect of death-by-barbecue, but also a living tribute to kings of the guitar. In other other words, he is a burnt offering on the altar of the guitar gods. Which means… Well, we don't know what it means.

The pig is primed for sacrifice. It's what drives him. In clothes marked with the names of his idols, he plays his swan song. The smoke from his burning flesh will—must!—somehow, reach the land of his gods. In death, he can commune with the forces that gave his life meaning.

Friday, October 16, 2009

A world no less insane than the one we know as the present, but a more innocent kind of insane.

Sea Host appears to have been a chain of seafood restaurants from the late 60s and early 70s. Or not. A chain from the East Coast. Or not. (Details are sketchy and hard to come by.) But it matters not! For regardless of when, where, or why it existed, we are refreshed to see "food" animals presented without even a hint of sex appeal, drunkenness, psychotic rage, or, in fact, anything more alarming than the garden-variety desire to die. Yes, it's come to the point where that is our baseline. We can hardly even remember animals who haven't dedicated themselves to the pursuit of their own deaths, chasing after it like a long-sought treasure.

Sea Host offered up an entire cast of suicidal characters, including these poor souls:

Sylvester (the titular host), Mr. Big, and Smiley—and the rest of the gang—were all too happy to cater to the wishes of their customers. One can imagine Mr. Big's Cockney slang, Smiley's endearing speech impediment, and Sylvester's belief in the hard-won honor of serving himself, boned and filleted, lying beneath a lemon wedge.

It's almost sad to think about them now, their finest days long behind them. Now that they've died, no more do they have death to look forward to. They've been robbed of what they held most dear.

No! Let's remember them as they were. Not dead, but happily, blissfully, eternally about to die.

(Special thanks to the Waffle Whiffer, who doesn't even know that he helped.)

Wednesday, October 14, 2009

The animals have found a way to draw the death-and-dying process out. Instead of the quick hop onto the grill, they can luxuriate in the fragrant spray of barbecue sauce, letting it seep into their every pore, soothe their every ache. Frolicking, spooning the tangy lather over themselves, enjoying a drink, they lounge. Like debutantes making the most of their own anticipation, they linger in the slop. While the coals heat up and ash over, our bathers let all their cares slip away.

What's got us so interested isn't the same familiar glimpse into the minds of suicidal "food" animals. No, it's the tagline.

"We may all be different, but in the end we're all kin!"

That is some profoundly poignant wisdom. Profoundly poignant and thoroughly, horribly, irredeemably revolting.

Indeed, when the animals have been killed, plucked (in the chicken's case), skinned (in the case of the cow), butchered, marinaded, grilled, and eaten, they really are just kin, indistinct members of that great family of death. It is only in death where they achieve their authentic identity, that of faceless, featureless nonbeings.

That they celebrate this fact! That it comforts and amuses them! We suspect brain damage.

Monday, October 12, 2009

We have dropped any number of bombshells with our series of pig logo exposés. We've ruffled the feathers of the suicidefood establishment. Stepped on some toes. Sure. Obviously. It comes with the territory.

If you've been following our exposés, you might suppose you've already seen the most prevalent pig mascots. Perhaps you're thinking of Lumpy, with at least 17 tokens. Or maybe Pig Out, with at least 18. But they are as nothing compared to this, our latest and greatest installment! Feast your eyes on this cornucopia of suicidefoodist cloning!

Now, we know what you're thinking. The breadth, the scope, the numbing repetition! It's overwhelming! Well, prepare to be overwhelmeder!

Because this is only the beginning. Something has been nagging at us for a good long time about this pig—we'll call him Ubi, short for ubiquitous. We couldn't get over the feeling that, even though we have uncovered example after example of him, in varying degrees of customization, there was more to the story.

And then it hit us like a plate of pork. (Barf.)

Exposé 3, starring Ta-Da! At the time of this writing, we have unearthed 17 specimens. Here, take a look at a couple.

Don't you see?

Ta-Da! is Ubi. Ubi is Ta-Da! They are one. We are looking at the mightiest confluence of clip-art, folk art, and barbecue meme the world has ever known! It's almost like the Unified Field Theory, drawing together every strand of the Suicidefoodist Movement!

And it happened in our lifetime.

Addendum: Opinion at headquarters is divided, but doesn't there appear to be some Ubi influence in this, as well? (The image, by the way, is for a dogpark.)

Addendum 2 (10/18/09): The 50th example of Ubi/Ta-Da!

Addendum 3 (10/25/09): Two from the German-speaking world, coming in at #51 and #52. One advertises a Metzgerei (butcher's shop), and the other a "suckling pig paradise!"

Addendum 4 (10/26/09): This thing's gone global!

Addendum 5 (11/21/09): For number 54, Ubi lounges on an airplane so that he might be delivered—fresh!—directly to your mouth.

Addendum 6 (2/19/10): Fifty-five. Okay, we get the point.

Addendum 7 (4/25/10): We're calling it. Number 56. It's iffy, but the general shape of the snout and ears, not to mention the sparse head hairs, sealed the deal for us.

Addendum 8 (10/06/10): #57.

Addendum 8 (10/16/10): For number 58, we go back south of the border.

Addendum 9: With appearances 59–63, Ubi cements his reputation as the hardest-working pig in the dying business!

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Diagnosis

What is Suicide Food? Suicide Food is any depiction of animals that act as though they wish to be consumed. Suicide Food actively participates in or celebrates its own demise. Suicide Food identifies with the oppressor. Suicide Food is a bellwether of our decadent society. Suicide Food says, “Hey! Come on! Eating meat is without any ethical ramifications! See, Mr. Greenjeans? The animals aren’t complaining! So what's your problem?” Suicide Food is not funny.